“And thus a knyaz claims his mate.” Her voice was low and full of scorn.
“As is his right.” Ignoring the hatred pouring off her in waves, Mikhail dragged the blade sideways so that the dull side scraped over her nipple. If only he had a free hand to run over her body, or the time to taste her with his tongue. He shook his head, trying to stay focused.
“I am not your property.”
Teasing her lower lip with the point of the knife he said, “What are you, then?”
She took a deep breath and let out a long, shuddering exhale. “Your destruction.”
“You’ve always been that, Alya Adad.”
The pupils of her eyes shot wide, liquid black swamping the iris. They both knew he spoke the truth, and for a moment, it was enough to surprise her into stillness. Her brows drew together, and her lips parted with an unasked question. Then and there he lost his battle for control, and lowered his mouth to hers, wondering how many times he’d risen from a long day’s dreaming tasting her. Hundreds? Thousands?
Her breath still smelled of cinnamon. He eased his forearm off her throat, drew her close, and kissed her the way he did in his dreams. The stiff resistance in her spine gave way. Her lips parted, accepting him. He groaned, his fist clenching in her thick hair. Together they slid down the wall. She rolled onto her back. He straddled her, his hands coasting greedily over her breasts. Magnificent knyaginya.
Alya thought what she had to do next should be easy. They were at war. She was a prisoner. She liked to be in control. Being tied up, straddled and mauled by a determined knyaz did not constitute being in control.
But it wasn’t easy. She’d never been kissed by anyone so hungry. His urgency stirred her despite herself. And he was not just anybody—he was a hungry prince. Her body had been trained to respond to them, even though it had been many years since she’d played that way.
More confusingly, he wasn’t just a prince, he was Mikhail, and he palmed her through her jeans as they kissed, just as he had when they were teenagers. She’d come for the first time ever rocking against his palm, just as she was now.
What do you think is going to happen? He will take you home, drain you half dry and fuck you over and over again until you submit to his will. That is their way.
And this one is worse than all the rest, because he thinks he owns you.
She had to take the upper hand and fast, so she writhed, surreptitiously testing his rope. It had loosened. It obeyed his will, and his will had turned to just one thing.
Moaning into his mouth, she strained for the knife she kept at the small of her back, tugging and twisting her right wrist until she tore her skin. It didn’t matter. Like a trapped animal, she’d gnaw off her arm to be free. To distract him from the smell of the blood coursing off her wrist, she kissed him hard, mimicking his ferocity.
Abruptly he broke off the kiss and hauled her to her feet by her collar. “Not here,” he said, his voice rough.
The change in position allowed her to pop her hand free. Her elbows were still bound to her sides, but she had some mobility in her wrist and forearm. She stretched her wet, sticky fingers toward the small of her back, straining until she grasped the knife hilt.
Making a noise that she hoped sounded like resignation, she slumped against his chest. He tangled his hands in her hair and kissed her again. She had all of five inches of play against the rope, and she used it to stab him in the thigh. The groin would have been better, but she couldn’t reach that far. Her slender, wicked blade sliced upward, splitting muscle and nicking bone.
He let go, looking down, as if he couldn’t quite imagine what had just happened. As if someone else might have stabbed him.
She pivoted and kicked him under the chin, sending him reeling backward. She bounded after him and kicked him in the head, this time knocking him unconscious. The rope slackened and dropped from her arms.
When the rope fell, so did all traces of that sentimental, erotic fog that had almost overwhelmed her.
He’d tied her up. Cut off her shirt and bra. Smashed her head.
She knotted the remains of her blouse under her breasts, cursing to herself.
“That’s—for—my—head!” She punctuated each word with a kick to his body, rolling him across the roof like a rag doll.
Chapter Four
Her last kick left Mikhail in an awkward sprawl. Yet his saint’s face was serene. The roof could have been his bed, the tar paper and gravel a pillow for his brilliant hair.
She straddled his chest and drew her knife. It shook in her hand, crazy lights glinting off the polished blade. Her hand never shook. Never. The knife was her friend, and her hands were trained well.
As a child her father had made her balance an egg on a spoon for five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes. If she dropped it, the time doubled. If she dropped it again, he beat her.
She steadied her wrist with her opposite hand and forced the knife to be still.
It wasn’t fear that made her shake. It wasn’t pain, either. The torn skin around her wrist was a superficial wound. Desire? She had to admit she felt it, whether she liked it or not, but desire didn’t make her tremble either. Her lovers needed her hand to be rock steady.
This was something else, something more like an illness. It was disconcerting to be near him after all these years. More than she would have ever expected.
“Why did you bother trying?” she whispered.
He had to be insane to try to capture her. If he wanted a bride, vamp families all over the world would fight to offer their daughters to him. Vampire society didn’t consider her bridal material anymore, that was for sure.
It was hard to believe something as insubstantial as a dream could induce him to walk into enemy territory, or stranger still, convince him that he should marry her. If she’d been in his place, she would have said, “Fuck the prophecy, I’m not going.”
Something else brought him there. Some plan of his. A plan that had failed.
Well, game over. She pressed the blade beneath his left earlobe, wondering if she should exsanguinate him. It was within her rights—more or less. It hadn’t been formal combat, but she doubted any other prince would pass up the opportunity to acquire Faustin’s strength.
But if she really were his destined mate, would drinking his blood bind her to him? Could she be bound to a dead man? Best not to find out.
No exing, then. Just one swift cut from ear to ear.
But at the thought her hand began to shake even harder and her teeth chattered in sympathy. She clamped her jaw shut.
Fucking hell, what is this? Palsy?
It came to her that the only other time she could remember being this unsteady, she’d also been with Mikhail. The first time they had sex she’d trembled violently before, during and for a long time after. Mikhail had tried to hold her tight to stop the shivering, but it didn’t do much good, because he was shivering too.
Until that night she’d expected that sex would be…well, sexy, like in the movies, Instead, it had been strange and intense and blindingly intimate. They’d both cried. She remembered looking up at the willow branches overhead while he pressed inside her—they were in Central Park—and the leaves were shimmering silver and shaking in the night breeze. It seemed like the whole world trembled with them.
It was only like that the first time, fortunately, or they’d probably both have ended up celibate for life. And she never trembled again after that. Not in bed and not during fights.